3 Punches, 2 Revenges, 1 Apology
by lazuli dreamer
Summary: [REMAKE] Today was a bad day for John. His annoying-insensitive-best friend—Sherlock—made it worse. Punches couldn't be avoided and both of them were possessed by anger. Three times John punched his best friend but Sherlock just hit him back twice and walked away with painful look.


Today was a bad day for John. His annoying-insensitive-best friend—Sherlock—made it worse. Punches couldn't be avoided and both of them were possessed by anger. Three times John punched his best friend but Sherlock just hit him back twice and walked away with painful look.

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Disclaimer for **Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Sherlock Holmes) Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss (TV Series SHERLOCK by BBC ONE)**

Character: **John Watson & Sherlock Holmes**

~oOo~

 **3 Punches, 2 Revenges, 1 Apology**

by Little Hatake

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Today was a bad day for John. A really, really bad day.

He had an appointment at seven o'clock in the morning, but he woke up at six-forty five. Actually, he had asked Sherlock to wake him up at five-thirty but he couldn't find him anywhere that morning. To make matters worse, he spilled his coffee on the last clean shirt he had. He took a cab to go to hospital and realised that he forgot to bring his wallet right when he arrived, at seven-forty nonetheless. He entered his practice room and immediately received a complaint from his patient about his time management. John couldn't really oppose that because he was indeed in the wrong.

Complaint and consultation sessions were over at lunch time. John just had a few poundsterling in pocket, so he could only buy the cheapest and the worst tasted lunch pack for he had to save some money to go home.

He got back to work at one. Luckily, no misfortune happened to him till his work hours ended. But it didn't stay long. On the way home, the cab's tire suddenly exploded and there were no empty ones around.

So, he had to walk for about 2 kilometres back to 221B Baker Street beneath the hot summer's sun. That was how John ended his work day today.

Now, John leaned his fatigued body against his arm chair in living room. He breathed slowly, trying to calm his emotions. Sweat kept soaking his suit, making everything even more uncomfortable. Maybe that was the accumulation of his physical and mental exhaustion.

Fortunately, there was nobody in the flat, just him. Indeed, he needed time to be alone. No Mrs. Hudson who usually laughed loudly while watching her favourite comedy series. And no Sherlock who could make everything—

"Why can't I remember something this important?!" John heard a heavy tone followed by rushing steps ascending the stairs.

—worse. Oh, John just felt relieve but immediately regretted his last statement.

When Sherlock entered his bedroom without his permission, John yelled, "Sherlock, what are you doing in my bedroom?!"

John had known he could have no privacy when he had decided to share flat with Sherlock Holmes. The consulting detective could crack his laptop's password in less than a minute. And John wasn't surprised anymore if Sherlock suddenly opened the bathroom door—when John was fully naked taking a bath!—just to explain his deduction.

' _But, please Sherlock_ _..._ _'_ John thought, _'_ _S_ _top doing these annoying things today..._ _N_ _ot this time, not today, not when my day is really suck.'_

"I'm checking the result of my important experiment!" Sherlock answered from inside.

"You did your experiment in my room? _Again_?!" John couldn't believe what Sherlock said.

"The kitchen is already full and I need a place to conduct this important experiment," Sherlock explained lightly like nothing serious happened. He was carrying a lot of beaker glass containing chemical solutions carefully and moving it to a small empty space in the kitchen table. "I will clean it up. Don't worry, John."

"That's what you always say after you MESS UP MY ROOM! And it's always ME who has to clean up your bloody experiment!"

"You never give me time, John!"

"Give you _two days_? Where am I supposed to sleep?"

"Umm... you can sleep on the sofa then." Sherlock ignored John's annoyed expression.

Well, time flew with nobody tried to break the silence. Sherlock was busy with his microscope and chemistry stuff as John preferred to sit down in silence while still controlling his mood.

Twenty minutes passed by and suddenly Sherlock spoke without taking his eyes from his microscope, "You know, John? I saw your girlfriend coming out from a jewellery store with a man when I went to Scotland Yard. They were obviously in love."

John tried to ignore him, but the words got into him anyway.

"At first, I didn't care about that. But, I remembered she was the girl that you introduced to me last week. She usually wears high heels and doesn't have black hair, so it couldn't be Stephanie. Doesn't have a Persian cat so it's not Josephine. I only remember her Italian accent—"

"It's Bella," John interrupted sharply. He really wanted Sherlock to stop this conversation. Why couldn't Sherlock be sensitive and talked about how his girlfriend cheated on him in his extremely bad mood?

"Yes, it's obviously Bella! Thanks for your help!"

Sherlock had already finished with microscope and was now writing the results, still not understanding how hard John was trying to control his anger. "You should have taken my advice earlier, John. I told you, she dated you only because she thought she'd be able to climb the social stairs by dating a doctor. Then she'll clean out your wallet until nothing's left! When she finds a richer bloke, she'll just walk away!"

John's hands curled into fists, restraining himself to explode. Trying to keep his voice calm, John asked his flatmate, "Sherlock, could you stop this conversation and just leave me alone? I think concentrating to your experiment is more interesting than taking care of my love life, isn't it?"

Without looking at his friend, Sherlock even kept on talking this topic. "Listen, John. I give this advice as a friend. Look for a better woman. Don't date a socialite, it doesn't suit you, by the way. Remember, you still have to pay share flat with me and not to mention the cab's fare. Just..."

"Sherlock, would you mind if I use _this_ to shut your mouth?" John now rose from the sofa and approached Sherlock with full of nearly-uncontrolled emotion, his hands curled into fists. If Sherlock could stop talking, it would be _sooo_ lovely. But, Sherlock didn't even notice John's warning and John was already standing beside him.

"...maybe a nurse in your hospital will get along well with you—" Suddenly, Sherlock's words were interrupted by a fist hitting his right jaw. He fell against the table onto the floor, breaking some of the glasswares, whose broken pieces scattered around the kitchen.

"Can't you just shut your bloody mouth?! You have ruined everything, Sherlock! Even my life!" Oh no, John couldn't hold his anger anymore. He punched Sherlock right on his face and that couldn't even lessen his anger.

A surprised look appeared on Sherlock's face. "Why did you punch me?!"

"Because you just can't shut up!" John's keen gaze met Sherlock's enraged eyes.

Sherlock couldn't accept that John dared to punch him. What did he do wrong? He just tried to help John's love case! He didn't care about the love stuff actually; he just cared of his friend. That was what a friend for, wasn't it? To care and help each other.

He got up from the floor, preparing a fist. Right now, his high pride had been blown away. "John, can I hit you back? I told you that I took a boxing class for 2 years in college, didn't I?"

"Really? Just prove it—" And a very powerful punch landed on John's face. Immediately, John fell onto the floor with a hard thud. John found himself sprawling on the floor before having a chance to process the pain bursting from the newly formed bruise on his lower jaw. "Sherlock! You're serious!"

"Of course I am! If I say it, I really mean it! You should know that since you're my friend, John!" Sherlock yelled and pointed his finger to John. Anger had possessed both of them.

"Maybe, having you as a friend is a wrong decision!" As soon as he could, John stood up and hit Sherlock again. Now, the bruise on Sherlock's corner lips started to bleed. Not much, but enough to hurt.

This time, Sherlock could hold himself in his position, a little bit unstable but not punching back. He noticed trace of the blood with his thumb then glared at John. "You remember? I never insisted you to share this flat with me. I never wanted you to consider me as your friend. It was all your choice!"

"So, I made a huge bloody mistake for choosing it!"

Still full of anger, John grabbed Sherlock's collars and pulled them up. Sherlock was taller, but it didn't bother John to break his emotions at him.

Once again, He fixed on Sherlock's greyish steely eyes, furiously gazing. But this time, Sherlock didn't reply with same anger. His eyes were still keen, looking towards John's, but he looked... _sad_.

Hurt and disappointment were playing around his face, mixed with disbelief. John actually could see the change of Sherlock's expression, but he chose to ignore it. He was in a bad mood and he had right to be angry, didn't he?

John had hoped Sherlock would hit him back; he was ready for a fight. But, it seemed Sherlock wouldn't do that. Just a painful look and not even a word came from his mouth. Not getting what he wanted, John was dashing his flatmate and back to his own chair. He wiped his face with his palm and kept silent. He could hear Sherlock cleaning up the broken glasswares or maybe saving the rest laboratory apparatus and walking down the stairs.

John looked up and asked, "Where are you—"

"Lestrade's."

A short, flat and cold answer, followed by a hard slamming of the door.

.

.

Now, only silence that was filling the flat. John sank in his armchair, breathing heavily; inhaling through the nose, exhaling through the mouth. He looked at the empty chair in front of him- empty surely. The owner had gone and left him alone, like what he wished for. So, shouldn't he be relieved when he got what he wanted?

John touched the bruise on his face, groaning. Sherlock had punched him really, really hard this time. Not like when he had hit him as an act being attacked to enter Irene Alder's house. It This one was a powerful, emotional one. The bruise would surely turn blue and stiff, needed to put an ice pack on it by now.

John finally rose up and walked into the kitchen to find an ice pack. He carefully opened the fridge, hoping the ice packs weren't drained out by Sherlock for his-silly-bloody-research or at least there were no rotten body parts in a jar.

Fortunately, the ice packs were more than enough, around three or four and there was no jar with bloody flesh with maggots crawling. Maybe Sherlock had cleaned it up by himself—he never let John or Mrs. Hudson touch his stuff—to give more space for another specimens. He took out a pack and put it on his injured left cheek cautiously.

"Urgh!"

Tea sounded good for now; it could cool down his boiling emotions. John was brewing a cup while compressing his bruise with his left hand. He sat on a small chair near to the kitchen table, holding the cup.

Tea's vapour drifted through his nostril, filling it with a warmth. It was really relaxing. As he sipped, he thought about what had happened between him and Sherlock. John could clearly remember those irritated eyes.

It was not the first time they had a fight. It was usual for them to yell at each other and end with several punches. They had had countless fights. The rudest words John ever said were "You bloody-idiot-Holmes!" and Sherlock would reply "Little-mind-Watson!" then they laughed over it.

But, this one was different.

Sherlock didn't even say anything when John hit him for the second time. Instead of punching back, he just stared at John with that painful look, untold disappointment reflected from his gaze, feeling betrayed. John recalled what he said.

 _"...having you as a friend is a wrong decision!"_

 _"...I made a huge bloody mistake for choosing it!"_

John sighed heavily. He kept telling himself it wasn't his fault! He was in very bad mood and Sherlock pulled the trigger and... Damn him!

John was feeling so guilty right now. He shouldn't say those harsh words to Sherlock! The most hurting words were not from how many curses you shouted at your best friend, just a simple sentence that could make a deep wound in his heart. And for Sherlock, when John regretted of his decision of choosing him as a friend, surely had destroyed his defence.

John wondered, if he were in Sherlock's position, he could've replied that he had other friends to ask for. But it _was_ Sherlock after all. His antisocial-arrogant-annoying-insensitive-smart-arse best friend, who couldn't respect someone easily.

But, he didn't only respect John. He honestly cared about him as a friend. Not as a colleague, not as a companion, but as his _best friend_. And foolishly, John had broken the trust that Sherlock had put on him whole-heartedly into pieces.

John knew, his flatmate was indestructible but also fragile at the same time. He could be a heartless bastard—well, he just didn't know how to react like normal people. He could be the first one who would help when his dear friends were in danger. John knew Sherlock really wanted to help John's love problems.

But, he didn't know—maybe he never would—the right time to show that caring side of his. Not an important skill, he thought, and he would get rid of it from his mind palace. And John should've known because he had lived with Sherlock for a long time. More importantly, because he was _Sherlock's best friend_.

John really, really regretted what he had said to him. He wanted to take them back, but what had happened couldn't be repeated anymore. Regrets always came in the end.

John pulled out his mobile phone from his pocket and texted a message.

 _Sherlock, I'm really sorry bout I said before. I never regret having you as a friend, you know. My deepest apology_ —

But, John deleted it immediately. Maybe, it was better to call him even though Sherlock preferred to text. It would show him that John is really sorry.

Then, he dialled Sherlock's number and waited.

 _"The number you are calling is inactive or out of range. Please call again later."_

"What a..." John hung up the phone, breathing heavily.

He remembered what Sherlock's answer was to his question before he slammed the door irritably. It had to be Lestrade's place. So, he found himself dialling Lestrade's number.

Unfortunately again, the Detective Inspector didn't pick the phone even after John's fifth call. John finally grabbed his jacket from the wall and decided to go to New Scotland Yard.

.

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"Ah, John! Sorry for not answering. It's quite busy here," Lestrade said as John entered his room.

John smiled. "No problem. I'm sorry to bother you, Greg."

"It's okay, John, I always have time for you and Sherlock." Lestrade's smile was always warming and calming. A father-like's smile. "Have a seat. What's the matter, by the way?"

John sat and looked around, looking for familiar tall body and curly hair. "Do you see Sherlock? He said that he would see you."

"Sherlock? He's just gone away around an hour ago after giving me this note." Lestrade showed John a paper with Sherlock's handwriting. It looked like a chemical formula structure and a few lines of sentences. "He asked me to give him some interesting cases and I told him to search by himself and pick one. But it seemed there was nothing interesting him because he muttered 'boring', 'boring' and 'boring' all the time before going away."

"I see..." John could clearly imagine that. "And do you know where he's going?"

Lestrade leaned back to the chair, shaking his head. "No idea. Sorry, John."

"It's ok." John took it easy, but his brain was thinking to find a possible place Sherlock would go.

Suddenly, Lestrade pointed at John's bruise on his left jaw. "What's wrong with you? Sherlock's got a bruise, too. Had another smack down show?"

John shrugged. "Something like that." Lestrade responded John's answer with a laugh. "Thank you, Greg. Please go back to your work." Once again, John smiled and left Lestrade's room.

"You're welcome."

John intended to call Mycroft. But, the thought of what he would do if he knew his brother was missing—'kidnapping' John into his black car, asking annoying questions, or the worst was installing CCTV over in their flat—made John cancel his plan.

Finally, one place came across his mind. Then, he hailed a cab and told to the cabbie "Bart's".

.

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From the time he sat down in the cab, John couldn't stay still. He couldn't stop looking at every corner of the street. Maybe, Sherlock was doing some transaction with his Baker Street Irregulars. But, he found nothing. There was no sign of his flatmate until he arrived at Bart's Hospital.

John walked up the stairs and met Molly on his way.

"Molly, do you see Sherlock?" John asked.

"Oh, John! Sherlock told me if I see you, you better don't disturb him."

"...what?" John couldn't understand what Molly just said. Or maybe he just wanted to convince himself that Sherlock was no longer angry at him. He wasn't really sure which one was true.

Molly approached John quickly, and then cleared his her throat before asking, "Did you two have a fight?"

John nodded slightly.

"Well, Sherlock suddenly came here when I was about to go home, looking a bit tired. I asked what happened but no answer. I saw the bruise on his face so I helped him on that."

Molly curled her cardigan to comfort herself. "'Is it ok if I go home now?' I asked him and he just said 'If you see John, tell him not to disturb me.' "

"Alright then..." John glanced at the floor and back to Molly. Conclusion: Sherlock was still mad at him. Oh, it was a record that Sherlock could stand having an emotion in more than an hour! What an improvement! John only tried to cheer up himself a bit, despite his guilt.

Molly tightened her cardigan. "I know you will insist on coming after him. He's in the lab, by the way. Hope both of you can make up soon," she said before continuing her walk downstairs.

John couldn't agree more with Molly. He hoped so too. He buried his hands into his jacket pocket, preparing himself to face the angry detective.

Now, he was heading to the lab, his footsteps echoing along the hallway. He knew Sherlock would recognize it and that was what John intended; noticing him.

The lab door wasn't locked, it was even fully open. John didn't need to make noise so Sherlock would realize he was there. There was a melting ice pack on the table near to Sherlock and bandages on his face.

Sherlock was concentrating with some experiments, John guessed. Handling a surgical blade on his right hand, slicing something on the Petridis, taking a look at it and dropping a chemical solution. His serious face was even more depressing.

John stopped a few feet away dramatically—with a bit louder pounding—and Sherlock glanced at him; as he wished, with _that look,_ and back to his work again. Immediately, the guilt grew even heavier in John's heart. John tried his best to gather all of his courage to speak. Why now it was so hard to say even a word? The tension between them was greater than John could imagine.

Eventually, John took a deep breath and stuttered, "Um, Sherlock... About what I said in the flat... That... I'm so—"

"Don't bother me, John. I'm _working_." The tone was colder than before, muting him immediately.

John just stayed on his. Sherlock's voice held no humour as he said that. He was truly mad! He even didn't want to hear John's explanation. But John still hoped that Sherlock would change his mind. He kept waiting in silence and Sherlock still shut his mouth for minutes.

It was never easy to deal with Sherlock's mood swings. He was so persistent not to speak as stubborn as nonstop mumbling in fast speed.

Not knowing what else he could do, John finally gave up, slumping his shoulders and deciding to leave the room. He sighed and when he was about to leave the lab—

"John."

A calm, deep intonation stopped his footsteps. John instantly turned back again and frowned. Did Sherlock just call his name?

"Pipette."

John was frowning deeper, couldn't get this at all. "Pardon me?"

"I know you heard me, John." That cold tone was back. "A thousand millilitres pipette."

John approached Sherlock to make sure that Sherlock was really talking to him. How come Sherlock said something _right before_ John wanted to go? "You want me to hand you a pipette?"

"It's on your left. On the rack," Sherlock said without even looking at John; still busy with whatever he was experimenting.

John looked at the rack and he found that the pipette was closer to Sherlock than to him. Why Sherlock couldn't reach it by himself? "It's closer—"

"Pipette."

Without further comment, John took the pipette and gave it to Sherlock. John thought, maybe it was the right time for him to apologize. Sherlock had begun to talk and listened to him, after all. "Sherlock, I—"

"Beaker glass. Two hundred and fifty." Another order from the detective cut John's words. "Next to the wash basin. Take the clean one."

John's mouth was still open, processing what was going on. "Beaker glass?" John asked but met no answer. John couldn't refuse the order and just walked to the wash basin.

"Here you are." John gave the beaker glass, cleared his throat once again and began, "Listen, Sherlock. About—"

"Fifty millilitres volumetric flask."

For God's sake, was Sherlock trying to play a joke on him? John was pursing his lips, holding his emotion.

' _Hold on, John. Don't let the anger blind you again or you'll regret it.'_ John tried to think as positively as possible.

Once again, he reached the flask and put in front of Sherlock with a loud clunk. "Sher—"

"Erlenmeyer."

"For God's sake, Sherlock!" John hit the table impatiently. He really couldn't hold his emotion any longer. He had been patient enough to do what Sherlock wanted but Sherlock kept ordering him to get the apparatus that he could get by himself!

"Listen to me just for once!" His shout made Sherlock look at him. "Listen! I really so—"

"Sherlock!" A yell and rushing steps approaching this room took Sherlock's attention as he looked away from John to find out who was calling his name.

John could only wipe his face, frustrated. Why this world couldn't be cooperative today?

"Sherlock! Why can't I call you?" In a matter of seconds, Lestrade was in the room. He seemed in a hurry.

"Low battery," Sherlock answered unconcernedly.

Lestrade leaned against the door, still controlling his breath. "You remember the serial bomber case two weeks ago?"

"Absolutely. What's happening now?"

"He just did the fifth!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes lazily and back to his specimen. "Bor—"

"He left a note this time! A warning letter!" Sherlock's eyes were widening, further explanation from Lestrade utterly caught his attention.

Lestrade smiled widely. "I know you'll be interested."

Without warning, Sherlock rose from his chair and ran towards Lestrade, leaving his work and a perplexed John.

John sighed heavily for the hundredth time today. Maybe going home, taking a hot shower and sleeping would be a good decision. Those were the best ways to forget what had happened in this lousy day.

When John was about to go, but—again—a baritone voice stopped him.

"John, come on!" Now with a cheerful tone. Sherlock peeked into the lab, his expression impatient as he obviously waited for John.

John blinked, not believing what he just heard. "What?"

Sherlock moaned a bit. "Come on, John! We have a case to solve!"

"But, aren't you still angry?"

"Yeah, but apology accepted." Mockery was heard on Sherlock's tone. But a slight smile cracked on his face. "We don't have time to be sentimental, John. Or hitting my face is more exciting than letting Anderson ruin the crime scene?"

John couldn't help but to smile. "The first sounds better actually. I have to admit I always enjoy punching you, and that was the most enjoyable one." He walked towards Sherlock.

"I know, because you punched me with your left hand. Don't forget you still owe me a punch on your face. I'll charge it back someday."

John grinned. "I'm looking forward for it."

"By the way, I'm sorry for tricking you, John. I just wanted to know that you really mean to apologize," Sherlock said as if it was _normal_ and _okay_ to throw some pranks on his best friend. John was definitely sure that Sherlock's apology was merely a lip-service.

"So, ready to catch a criminal?" Sherlock asked enthusiastically. Perhaps, he had forgotten—or deleted—their fight and the case had taken over his brain by now.

Today wasn't really that bad actually. Running over London to chase the criminal could be a good choice to close the day.

With a fiery spirit, John answered, "I always am!"

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 **FIN**

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~oOo~

rgrds, **LH**

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I remade my previous story because there were some reviews commenting about my grammar. I'm sorry because English isn't my mother language and I'm still learning it. I hope this version is more acceptable.

For this remake, big thank and hug for **seerstella** who helped me a lot! Thank you, sista XD

Oh yeah, I just figured out that John was left-handed in _The Sign of Three,_ he wrote a recipe for a patient with his left hand. In _A Scandal in Belgravia_ when John punched Sherlock in his face, he used his right hand because it was just for undercover. So, when John was serious, I think, he would use his dominant hand (left hand).

So, reviews are very appreciated to help me improve my writing skill in English :)) Hope you guys have a good day XD


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